Ten Cents
by Maggot Magnet
Summary: Medic and Heavy have no money, no gas, and no way to escape the gas station. Time to take drastic measures.


_Author's note: I decided to take a break from my ongoing "serious" stories to make this short three-part tale. Shout-out to betareader 'she-who-waits-behind-the-wall' for giving it a quick skim beforehand. Enjoy, and don't forget to review!_

* * *

In a gas station on Interstate 25, a little bell rung as the doors squeaked open. Two men marched in, arguing and dripping from the sleet outside.

"Wonderful job," said one, wiping his glasses with his dripping scarf. "Wonderful job ruining everything. Great. How do you not check if zhe gas tank is full or not? Is zhis your first time driving or somezhing?"

The other man stomped his boots against the doormat. "I didn't check," he growled, "because _YOU_ said not to check. 'Just drive, Heavy! There is enough gas! Just go or we'll be late!'"

Medic huffed aloud. "I do not sound like zhat. And _yoouuuu_ should haf—"

"Shut up." Heavy poked a finger into his doctor's chest. "We get food...we get gas...and we leave. It is simple enough for your stoopid head?"

His doctor shot him a glare. "Who's paying?"

The issue was dealt with in the fairest way they knew how: raising their hands and aggressively playing Odds and Evens.

Heavy guessed odds and won.

"Ugh," said Medic.

The two of them slid grumpily up to the counter, creating a grey puddle behind them.

"Good evening, sirs," said the blond young man behind the counter, a bit intimidated by their sneers. "What can I do you for?"

Heavy pointed. "Okay. I take, uh, one Marlboro—"

Medic laughed angrily. "Uhh...no you don't."

Heavy smirked at him. "It is fifty cents. Why you care?"

"Because it's_ my_ fifty cents."

He turned back to the vendor. "Sorry. No Marlboro. As you can see, Doktor has some sort of money problem."

After a bit of quarreling, the vendor finally handed Heavy a chocolate bar, which he ripped open as soon as he got.

As Heavy chewed and walked to the magazine section, Medic dug in his pockets for ten cents.

After a good minute, Medic turned around and called over to his teammate. "Hey, Heavy. You haf a dime?"

Heavy lifted his eyes from his magazine. "Why?"

"I am unable to find one."

Heavy smirked and flipped a few more pages. Medic took that as a no.

With an awkward smile, he turned back to the vendor. He did not get a smile in return.

Medic dug in his pockets for coins. Or bills. Any money. Anything!

Then, with a smile of sudden relief, he pulled out a sopping wet paper and slid it onto the counter.

"Here you are!" he sang. "Ah, I'm so happy. I thought I'd never find _any_—"

"Sir," said the vendor, horrified, "that is not a dollar."

Medic looked down. "Ah. My bad." He wiped some of blood off the counter with his scarf and put the not-dollar back into his pocket. Then he gave him another awkward smile. "Would you, er...excuse me a moment?"

With that, the doctor whooshed off beside his teammate.

"Heavy!" he whispered desperately. "Heavy, help me!"

He took another bite out of the chocolate. "Mmm?"

"Heavy, I don't haf any money."

He flipped a page. "I am sure. Big liar."

Medic urgently clasped his hands together. "Listen to me, Heavy. I haf nothing. Zilch. Nada. And you already opened the chocolate. And ate half. So we've got to pay _somehow_."

With a sigh, he put back the raunchy magazine. After chewing down the chocolates, he angrily crumpled the wrapper into a ball.

Then he tossed it at Medic's face, where it bounced off his nose and onto the floor.

"I save you this time, you selfish baby," Heavy grumped, "but you owe me ten cents. Remember."

"But it's ten cents."

"But it's _my_ ten cents."

Medic stood a moment, digesting that. "Let me just get zhis straight," he said. "You just called me a selfish baby, and now here you are making an entire production over handing me a ficken dime."

Heavy cracked his knuckles. "You want to fight me?"

A sigh of defeat: "All right,_ fine_. I owe you ten cents. _Fine_."

Heavy nodded once in approval. He reached into his coat pockets and dug around a bit.

After a little while longer, Medic chewed on his gloved thumb and asked, "You...did bring money, right? Before we left?"

"Well...I_ thought _so...but..."

"Don't tell me—"

Heavy sighed and covered his face.

"SHIT!" hissed Medic, slapping his wet hair. "SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!"

He hushed him. "It's okay. Stop that. We figure something out."

"_YOU_ FIGURE SOMETHING OUT!" he whispered.

"Okay. I _will_." Heavy paced in a circle, hands behind his back, thinking thoughtfully. "So...either we leave or we stay—"

"Obviously, dummkopf," said Medic, pausing his panic for a second.

Heavy continued walking, ignoring that. "We cannot leave, because we cannot drive car, and thus cannot get away. But also we cannot_ stay,_ because then clerk starts to think we are suspicious, and he calls police."

"EXACTLY!" Medic pulled on Heavy's coat lapels. "IT'S A HORRIBLE DILEMMA WITH NO ANSWER!"

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Well, there _is_ one answer..." began Heavy.

Medic let go of him. "There is?"

"We kill him."

His doctor laughed. "No, no. We can't."

He shrugged. "I am out of ideas."

Medic and Heavy thought for a little while longer, wincing at each other, rain still dripping from the bottom of their coats.

"What's taking so long?" called the vendor. "It's ten cents."

They both panicked.

"Okay, you go stall for time," said Medic, shoving him aside, "and I'll go phone our base. Hurry! I mean...don't hurry. Stall!"

Heavy nodded dutifully and they parted ways: Medic dashed out the door straight into the pouring sleet, and Heavy trudged to the counter in slow motion.

* * *

After slipping twice on the icy sidewalk in his rubber boots, Medic hurriedly shut himself into the red phone booth.

Then he remembered: 25 cents for a local call.

In a frenzy, Medic took a surgical knife out of his pouch and relentlessly hacked it into the coin slot. "Come on, come on..."

He heard a slight pop from the receiver, and a dial tone.

"Yes!" He briefly smooched his knife. "You solve anything, old friend!"

After he placed it back into his pouch, he spun in the number.

"Hello and welcome to the Mann Co. customer hotline, this is Miss Pauling speaking, how may I help you?"

Medic pressed the receiver to his cheek. "Ah! Good evening, Miss Pauling. Zhis is Medic. May you get zhe RED base on zhe line, please?"

"Uh oh," said Miss Pauling, but she connected him anyway.

The phone rang six times.

"Come on, come on," he said again.

Another click.

"Hello?" asked Medic.

"Thanks for da wake-up call, douchebag. It's freakin' eleven at _night_. Who is dis?"

"Your doctor." He frowned. "Zhis is Scout, I'm guessing."

"Bingo. Whaddaya want?"

"Oh. Scout." He cleared his throat. "I'm in a huge dilemma. Can you hand zhe phone over to someone else, please?"

"Why should I?" he scoffed. "I ain't stupid. And plus, everybody else is sleepin', so..."

Medic sucked in his cheeks.

"C'mon. What's up?"

"Well...Heavy and I were dr—"

"Yeah. Uh-huh. Where are you guys?"

Medic looked around. "I'm in a phone booth, in a parking lot, in a gas station, on Interstate 25. As I was sa—"

"When'd you guys even leave?"

"After dinner, about. Anyway, we—"

"And you know it's snowin', right?"

"Yes, dummkopf!" he spat. "I know! Now stop asking pointless questions and let me finish! So me and Heavy are at zhe gas station, and zhe vendor thinks we are stealing, but we aren't, and we don't have any money, and we can't drive home because of no gas. Okay?"

Scout laughed. "Uh...sucks for you."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Scout. You're a huge help."

"Hah. Hold on a sec." He muffled the receiver against his gauzed palm, and Medic could hear him shout for somebody.

During thumping of distant stairs, Scout and another merc had a loud conservation that mentioned vans and gas stations. Lots of groans and grumbles arose.

Soon enough, Sniper's voice crackled through the receiver.

"Y'ello."

"Sniper, listen. We're trapped in a gas station on Interstate 25 without any money and without any fuel. May you rescue us, please?"

He paused. "Ehhh...who's 'us'?"

"Hm? Oh, uh, Heavy and I."

Sniper sniffed. "Whot th'hell were you two doing out of the base in the first place?"

"_NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS! _AND ANYWAY, WHY SHOULD ZHAT EVEN _MATTER?_ JUST _HELP_ US!"

Curtains squeaked open. Sniper sighed into the phone for a while.

"But there's so much sleet outside...and the van's all the way in the back a' the lot..."

"SNIPER, WE'RE TRAPPED HERE! AND I SLIPPED TWICE IN ZHE SLEET! I AM GOING TO CATCH PNEUMONIA AND DIE IF YOU LEAVE ME HERE! And, uh, if you leave Heavy too. DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE? _ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME!?_"

There was a long silence on the other line.

"No, I'm not trying to kill you," Sniper snapped. "But it's _you_ that got yourself into this mess. So I'm doing nothing wrong if I don't be yer bloody Knight In Shining Armor, and I go tread through the pouring sleet to rescue you and Heavy from a bloody gas station."

He gritted his teeth. "But Sniper, I'm going to—"

"_I'm_ going to bed," Sniper said, "just like every other sane person in this base."

"You're...you're going WHERE?!"

"Sleep tight, mate."

A click, then the dial tone.

Medic repeatedly slammed the receiver against the metal, shouting a string of German expletives.

* * *

"No, not that one," said Heavy. "It had, uh...more darkish color."

The poor vendor was drawing out every stick of gum behind the counter. Heavy had lied that he was fatally allergic to all bubblegum except this _one particular kind_, the name of which he supposedly forgot.

"Do you at least remember the flavor?"

Heavy rubbed his chin. "It was...bubblegum flavor, I think."

The vendor groaned and continued looking.

Medic bursted through the doors. "HEAVY!"

He turned with slight hope. "Doktor, what they say?"

He ran up to him and hissed, "Nobody can save us. Zhey all went to sleep, and...and...I don't know what to do. Should I call back? I don't know."

Heavy pressed his eyebrows together. "But there's battle tomorrow morning. We have to do _something_."

The vendor awkwardly stood there as Heavy and Medic whispered to each other with determined faces.

Suddenly Medic pulled out an abnormally sharp surgical knife.

"HANDS IN ZHE AIR!" Medic yelled. "ZHIS IS A ROBBERY!"

The vendor raised his arms. "_WHAT?_"

Heavy leaned in. "GIVE US FIVE DOLLARS FROM THE CASH REGISTER! _NOW!" _

"OR _ELSE_!" added Medic.

The vendor, entirely dumbfounded, raised up five one-dollar bills.

Medic grabbed the money.

"HERE'S WHAT WE OWE YOU FOR ZHE CHOCOLATE," said Medic, slapping an entire dollar onto the counter.

"ALSO, GIVE ME ONE MARLBORO."

With shaking hands, he handed Heavy the cigarette box.

"THANK YOU!" Medic dashed out the door again, pursued by his teammate.

The vendor blinked.

"What...just...?"

After they pumped the gas to full with some of the remaining four dollars, Medic and Heavy plopped into the crappy Volvo and sped off down the highway.

The designated driver, Heavy, only had one hand on the wheel. With his other, he was trying to roll open his window.

"Eyes on zhe road," said Medic, absently chewing on his cigarette.

"I know how to drive," he grumped.

After they rattled over a pothole, Medic puffed on his cigarette and said, "It's a shame we never got to see Casablanca."

Heavy flicked his spent cigarette out the window. "Big shame."

"But even if we went," Medic realized, "we...wouldn't have been able to get in. Since neither of us brought money."

Heavy silently rolled the window up.

"But I'm glad we didn't bring any. Because it was fun robbing zhat place with you." Medic smiled.

He shrugged in reply.

They drove in silence. The car air was very cold.

After a while, the doctor let out a short chuckle.

"What is funny?"

"Nothing," he said, taking the cig from his mouth. "I was just thinking—movie or no movie, robbery or no robbery..." He smiled, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray below. "I always like zhe time we spend together."

Heavy abruptly turned back to the windshield. "Ah. Okay. Thank you, Doktor."

"Not a problem."

They kept driving.

Heavy squirmed a bit, then curled his fingers around Medic's glove.

"I want to thank you."

He looked at him. "You just did."

"I know. But this time, thank you for being my friend."

Medic shook his head. "Zhat is ridiculous, Herr Heavy. No one should haf to thank somebody for being zheir friend."

Heavy chuckled, turning his head closer. "But there is way I want to thank you..."

His doctor eased towards him, slowly raising an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"You find out." He squeezed Medic's hand.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah..."

They both closed their eyes and leaned in.

Then the car slammed into a metal pole.

"_HEAVY I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR EYES ON ZHE ROAD YOU FUCKING SCHWANZLUTSCHEEEER!_"


End file.
